


Surviving hell

by Makennaroni_n_Cheese



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amputation, Angry Steve Rogers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky is bffs with Natasha and Tony, Frenemies Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, Grief/Mourning, Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Loss, Murder, Natasha is too tbh, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prince Steve Rogers, Scary Natasha Romanov, Steve is 19 and Bucky is 21, Team Dynamics, The serum makes Steve healthy but he stays small, Tony Stark is super protective of Bucky, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, mind wipe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11683122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makennaroni_n_Cheese/pseuds/Makennaroni_n_Cheese
Summary: It was cold the day that Prince Steven Grant Rogers' life was flipped upside down.It was warm the day James Buchanan Barnes made it better.





	1. Broadcasted

It was cold the day the broadcast was aired in the kingdom. Everyone stood captivated by the image on the screen as their beloved queen, with her only child behind her to her left, diplomatically spoke of the news her general had whispered in her ear off camera just moments before she went on the air. It wasn’t what she had planned on talking about, but she needed her people to be safe. “Please be aware that General Brock Rumlow has informed me that a small band of thieves has been discovered trying to enter through the northwest corner of our border,” Queen Sarah had said, her soft blue eyes maintaining strong contact with the camera. “However, even though they have been thwarted, I advise--”

It was cold the day the broadcast of Queen Sarah’s assassination was aired in the kingdom. Citizens watched in horror as a small red dot appeared on her forehead just moments before a bullet punched its way through it, their queen maintained eye contact with them even as it did so. Screams of terror and disbelief erupted over the city and the queen’s body crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from her forehead and her mouth and creating a liquid veil over her frozen face, eyes still wide and lifelessly staring straight out in front of her. 

Panic finally set in and mothers ushered their children inside. 

Bakers slammed their doors shut. 

People cowered in fright and stared at the growing puddle of scarlet that stained their ruler’s blonde hair, the puddle creeping closer and closer to the crown that had clattered and rolled on the cobblestone to rest just a foot or so from her body. The prince, who had been standing just behind her, looked absolutely shell shocked. He had stumbled back, a skinny arm lifting up too late to stop blood and gore from hitting his face, and his body had quaked as he cried out for his mother. He had pushed himself up and had knelt next to her, blood staining the knees of his beige pants and getting underneath his fingernails as he scrabbled to get a handhold in her saturated clothes to turn her towards him. Prince Steven was dragged from the queen’s corpse by masked men, kicking and screaming and fighting with all the power in his frail body even as they chained his arms behind his back and tied a burlap bag over his head. The broadcast was taken over by other masked men who talked rapidly in a strange language that Steven couldn’t understand even if he had been trying to. Then, in a heavily accented voice that would haunt the prince’s nightmares for the rest of his life, one of the men screamed,” This kingdom belongs to Hydra! Heil Hydra!” Other voices joined in and fear finally froze the bound blond, his sight and movement restrained by the bag and chains respectively but his hearing available only to the deep, painfully loud chant. 

“This kingdom belongs to Hydra! Heil Hydra! This kingdom belongs to Hydra! Heil Hydra!”

It was cold the day that Prince Steven Grant Rogers knew his life would end, covered in his mother’s blood and bone and brain and chained against his will unable to see or move or do anything to stop what was going on around him-- unable to stop these men from lifting his frozen form and throwing him into what felt like a box and closing the lid on him even as he regained his ability to scream. It was cold the day that Hydra took over the kingdom and Queen Sarah’s beloved people watched in horror as everyone in a position of power to be able to stop the madness either chanted the same vein-freezing words the masked men on the broadcast were or were brutally slain by one who was. Women trembled and pulled their children to them as their husbands stared blankly at their television screens and recited the chant. People were stricken when their friends uttered those words, breath catching and taking several steps back from them.

More than just Queen Sarah’s blood was spilled that day. Citizens tried to fight back, but they were either incapable of fighting against trained enemies or unable to stand against people they thought that they could trust even if their own lives were on the line. Loyal people fell that day. A father hit the ground before his family’s television with his wife standing over him, his head held in one of her hands by his short black hair and a knife in the other, the woman watching with gleaming eyes as an elderly man with greying hair knelt, lifted the crown from the pool of the queen’s blood, and placed it on his own head. “Heil Hydra,” the woman crooned.

Her daughter cowered in the corner with her infant baby, watching in horror as their mother turned to direct her attention onto them.

 

\--

 

James Buchanan Barnes settled further into the couch cushions, his right hand lifting up a plump peach to his lips, the fuzzy skin brushing against his stubble as he took a massive bite, juice running down his chin and his left hand rushing up to wipe it off before it could drip onto his shirt.

“Classy,” a voice muttered from James’ left across the room, and the brunet lifted up his left middle finger without even looking away from the hologram in the middle of the room. A wrench flew through the air and hit the hand attached to the offending finger, and James’ yelp almost completely masked the sound of the clatter the wrench made when it hit the ground, but it did nothing to mask the snickering from the person sitting on the couch to his right. The skin on his hurt hand turned red as the man rubbed it, glaring at Sam Wilson, the snickering man on the couch. James twisted until he was almost laying flat on his left side, fragile peach still gripped in his right hand as he lifted his right leg and pressed his ice cold toes right behind Sam’s left ear. An even louder yelp sprang from Sam as he jolted away from the sensation and roughly pushed James off the couch, the brunet crushing his peach on the way down and knocking the cover of the hologram producer off, the hologram itself flickering before turning off.

“God damn it you two!” The voice from across the room yelled, a short man with neatly trimmed facial hair stalking over and bending over to fix the machine.

“Sorry, Tony,” Sam said, sounding pretty genuine and apologetic.

James, on the other hand, did not. He rolled over onto his back, peach pulp still held in his hand as he stared at the other man’s ass as he fixed the device. “Sorry, Tony. Hey, have you been working out? Gotta say, your ass is looking mighty fine,” he said, stretching out the vowel in ‘mighty’ before smacking the bent man’s rear with the hand covered in pulp.

Tony, in response, gave an indignant screech and jumped back.

“I can’t leave you boys alone for one second, can I?” A feminine voice questioned, and the three men looked over at the doorway as a woman clad in a tight leather skirt and a baggy, army green Henley that was without a doubt James’ walked in, a newspaper held in one hand and bright red sunglasses that matched her dyed hair obscuring her eyes and almost half her face with how massive they were. She tossed the newspaper onto the abused coffee table, taking James’ seat on the couch to Sam’s left. “Queen Sarah was assassinated today,” she said in an icy voice. “Hydra again.”

The playful atmosphere abruptly evaporated and James hissed out a clipped,” Shit,” before sitting up and grabbing the newspaper.

“Seriously?” Sam asked, eyes big with disbelief as he leaned over the other man’s shoulder to stare at the headline.

‘Queen Sarah Rogers murdered in broad daylight. Kingdom now under control of Alexander Pierce.’

The paper crinkled under James’ fingers as he tightened his grip on it. “Tony, did you get your suit fixed up yet?” He asked, turning sharp eyes to the oldest member of their group.

“Of course I did, but do you really think it’s a smart idea to do this? Last time you barged in on Hydra you got yourself blown up. Hate to inform you, but I have way better things to do than stitch your sorry ass up,” Tony retorted as he used his grease towel to wipe peach guts off his pants.

James turned his attention to the woman. “Natashka?” He inquired, voice hesitant but hopeful. Natasha sighed and grabbed the newspaper, skimming over the article again.

“It’ll take us a couple of days to get there, let alone get into the kingdom, which gives us enough time to work out a plan,” the redhead reasoned, nodding a bit as she leaned back against Sam’s front as she continued to think it over. Sam tensed up as Natasha rested against him, his dark face growing so red that James would have started laughing if the circumstances were lighter. 

“Okay,” she finally decided, lifting up her sunglasses and staring at James and Tony through her lashes. “We’ll pack up our equipment tonight and head out first thing tomorrow morning. You two go ahead and get started since you two have the most shit that you need to take with. Sam and I will make dinner and probably make out a bit in the kitchen.”

Sam’s face grew even redder and he said,” Yeah, okay,” like he had any choice in the matter and he followed Natasha into the kitchen like he would follow her off of the edge of the Earth, and honestly, he probably would. He was head over heels in love with this terrifying, terrifying woman.

James looked at Tony.

Tony looked at James.

James made a disgusted face.

Tony bursted out laughing and he patted the younger man’s shoulder as they split up to get their things together.

Sure enough, by the time the two of them were done packing their Hydra raid equipment, a massive pot of steaming soup was on the stove with a lid haphazardly thrown on and Sam was sitting on the counter, hands on Natasha’s waist and Natasha’s pale hands cupping his ebony cheeks as the two of them made out. James gagged as he walked into the kitchen, swearing that he could see tongue, and the redhead held up her index finger to signal ‘one moment, please’ before kissing Sam deeply one more time and pulling away, leaving him lovestruck and dazed with more than a little of Natasha’s cherry red lipstick smeared over the general area of his mouth.

Of course, none of the lipstick had smeared on her own face. She looked as perfect as she had when she had led her boyfriend into the kitchen to start on dinner.

She ladled soup into a panda-shaped paper bowl and handed it to the brunet, who took it and stared at a chunk of white chicken that sank below a slice of vibrant carrot into the pale, steaming yellow broth. “Hey,” she whispered, catching his attention. “We’ll find out where you came from. Don’t worry.”

James smiled a tight, fake smile and stuck a spoon into his bowl as Tony entered in behind him. “I know.”

 

\--

 

Steven Rogers jolted awake some time later, unaware of the fact that he had even fallen asleep in the first place, and he pressed his head against the side of the box in an attempt to hear any noise around him. There wasn’t any for several heartbeats, but when he moved his head back there were suddenly voices talking a few feet away in that same, incomprehensible language the masked men had been speaking in when they had abducted him. The prince went limp as the lid to his box was pried open, waiting until it was off all the way before jumping out and kicking wildly. One of the voices, a feminine one, squeaked in shock and another one, a masculine one, cried out in pain when Steven’s random kicks managed to land somewhere that felt especially bony.

The attack didn’t last long, what with Steven’s arms being chained behind him, the sack still on his head, and his limbs sore and shaking from being crammed in that tiny box for who knows god long, but he was deeply satisfied to have gotten at least one good lick in before he was knocked to the ground. He screamed and thrashed, and someone snapped in heavily accented English,” Knock him the fuck out,” before something smashed into his head and he became unaware of anything around him.

When he woke again, he became painfully aware of the dried blood on his skin and how the bag was now sticking to his face in several places, when the bag was suddenly ripped from his head and his eyes were exposed to painfully bright, buzzing fluorescent lights. He was in a uncomfortable metal chair, arms, legs, and torso strapped in several places to the chair. Doctors worked around him, sticking tiny monitors all over his frail chest that caused the machines next to his left and right to start beeping. A familiar, bulky form stalked into the painfully bright room, and Steven snarled and pulled roughly at his restraints as Brock Rumlow’s face came into view.

“Ah, little Prince Steven,” the man snickered, a mean smile twisting his handsome face into something so nasty the blond could spit.

And he did, mouth opening to scream at the man his mother had trusted only to discover that his voice was almost too painful and hoarse to handle even talking. It felt like he had just swallowed chunks of glass. “My mother trusted you,” he rasped in an angry voice, hands forming fists as he tugged against the restraints. His lip curled up in an angry snarl.

“So she did.”

“She was more honourable than twenty of you.”

“Mmm.”

“Do you really think that anyone in the kingdom will accept a less caring ruler?”

“Your mother was a cowardly, worthless leader,” Rumlow snapped, striding forward to stand next to the prince and tap some buttons on a screen as he continued nonchalantly,” You’d agree with me if you could pull that bitch off her goddamn pedestal.” He wiped off the slightly bloody spit from his cheek and wiped it on Steven’s blood-encrusted shirt once he finished plugging whatever information into the screen. “Any who, none of this will matter in the long run. You won’t remember anything after this.” He turned his hazel eyes to Steven’s face, a wicked smile returning to his face as he ran a gentle hand down the young prince’s cheek, the blond hissing and snapping his teeth.

Rumlow pulled his hand back quickly and glared, turning and walking towards the doorway before pausing and thinking momentarily. “Set the voltage to something a bit lighter than Winter’s settings. I want his brain fried but not so much that he’s a vegetable,” he called over his shoulder to the doctors before leaving the room.

The chair suddenly hummed and Steven craned his head back as far as the metal headrest would allow to see what looked like a headband start to move. The machines around him started beeping a bit quicker as his wide blue eyes locking onto the band. Visible bolts of electricity crackled over the metal and the monitors jumped considerably as it lowered, Steven’s chest now heaving as he scrambled to get out and away, god, this couldn’t be happening--

The prince screamed when it locked on his head, muscles tensing and locking up and convulsing against the restraints. His jaw snapped shut and froth spattered past his lips and onto his bloody shirt as his eyes rolled back into his head.

Rumlow chuckled lowly as he exited the building, Steven’s hoarse cries echoing through the long, empty hallways. He’d have that brat all to himself once Alexander Pierce was done with him, and that was a fact.

He’d be all his.


	2. The Hostage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look who finally updated!

He woke, muscles screaming in unadulterated agony as he blinked his eyes open and attempted to push himself up. He hung his head, body halfway to sitting as his chest heaved in an attempt to draw air in, heart rate picking up as he realized that air wasn’t coming in and he was choking and heaving and gasping--

A cool plastic mask was slipped over his face. The air within it tasted bitter. It reminded him of something… something that tickled the very back of his brain…

“There you go, just breathe. Shhh… I’ve got you, little guy,” a crisp, adenoidal voice murmured above his head. “I’ve got you.”

He lifted his head as much as his straining muscles would allow, eyes catching a glimpse of white hair and scruff and the flash of light reflected off of lenses before he gave into his muscles’ pleads to lower his head again. He felt dizzy, but his airways slowly started to ease and the dark shadows that had formed around the edges of his vision were slowly dissipating. “Who,” he rasped, breath only adding to the fog within the plastic mask being held against his face. “Who are you?”

The man hummed momentarily, as if debating whether or not to share his name. “Abraham. Abraham Erskine, Kapitän.”

“Kapitän?” He asked, brow scrunching in confusion. “Is that my name?”

“Oh,” Abraham responded, almost apologetically as he shifted their position on the cold cement floor that went unnoticed during the attack. “I don’t know what your name is. All I know is that you are someone important, and that they are calling you the Kapitän. Admittedly, I had hoped that the name would hold some form of meaning for you.”

Kapitän shook his head a bit, hissing as his neck twinged in response. “Kapitän is just fine, thank you. Where are we? Why am I so sore?” Sore he was. The more cognizant he became of his surroundings the more he realized that every muscle ached with overuse, from his toes to his teeth. The sides of his head were… burned? There were patches on his temples that felt hot and wet, and his hair there felt frizzy and brittle when he reached up a shaking arm to touch.

“Don’t touch,” Abraham said, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand from the marks. “We’re in King Pierce’s preparation room. I am to help build your strength until you are well enough to survive the procedure.”

The unspoken 'procedure?' was acknowledged with a heavy sigh from the greying man above Kapitän. “Pierce wants you as a soldier. A pet that will kneel at his feet. He already stole your memories once,” so he was somebody before he was Kapitän,” now he just wants to make you…” Destain filled his voice. “...Prettier. I developed a serum twenty years ago to help my beloved kingdom in Europa during a terrible bout of Sudden Death. It cured the moderately sick, turning the ill into strong men and women that were seemingly unstoppable. Pierce collected all of the cured people and myself, leaving the children and elderly to die. I presume he has been using the others to produce more soldiers with the serum, since it binds to DNA and can’t be separated to study and replicate.”

“Then how will he give it to me? If there isn’t a way for him to replicate it, then how will he--”

“He threatened the world. He has weapons unlike any other I’ve ever seen and I couldn’t let him destroy other kingdoms like he did my own,” Abraham explained. “So I gave it to him. I didn’t have a choice.”

That made sense. Leaving children and the elderly to fend for themselves was revolting, and something within Kapitän grew red hot with anger. “You did the right thing,” he replied, pulling the mask from his face once his breathing felt as normal as it could with how awful his ribs ached. “I would have done the exact same thing in your position.”

Abraham opened his mouth to say something, but the door behind them started to scream as it was pushed open, both of them turning worriedly to look. 

A harsh, gravelly voice shouted something in a language that Kapitän couldn’t fully comprehend through the six-by-six inch hole three fourths of the way up the door. Something about hands?

“He wants us to stand with our hands on the wall,” Abraham supplied a moment later, helping Kapitän to his feet and supporting him as much as he could as they stumbled to the wall. The aging man slipped the mask back onto Kapitän’s face when his breath started to grow ragged just as the door screamed open, metal and grinding and painful to listen to.

“He is still unwell,” the voice rumbled, disapprovingly. “King Pierce wanted him to be better than this.” Heavy, skidding footsteps grew closer to Kapitän before a foot suddenly lashed out, catching him in the back of the knees and forcing him to fall to the ground with a pained cry. Abraham and the man the voice belonged to started rapidly talking, urgent and pleading meeting cold and unyielding. 

Abraham's voice started to diminish when the other man’s voice refused to waver and Kapitän pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, turning just enough for him to get a good look at the stranger. He saw a sharp face, with a furrowed brow and thick, bushy eyebrows. Olive-toned skin, muted green eyes, and nearly black hair that was slicked back and flat against the top of his head. He caught a glimpse of black clothing, a thick kevlar top, cargo tactical pants tucked into the heavy-duty boots covering his feet, multiple weapons on his hips and a strange insignia on his chest that he didn’t get a good look at before he was being turned around and pulled to his feet, the mask snagging and pulled below his face to rest against his neck.

“I will take him now. For your sake and his, I hope you’ve prepared him for this,” the stranger said in an accent very similar to Abraham’s but thicker. More severe.

“He won’t survive and you know that! You brought him to me half dead two days ago; I can’t heal him faster than his body allows--”

The man used his free hand to pull a weapon free, pressing a button that caused it to come alive with insistent buzzing and flashing blue lights. “Speak out again and I will not hesitate to end your life, Erskine.”

Kapitän twisted and stomped harshly on the stranger’s foot, spitting upwards towards his face. The look of shock and disgust on the man’s face was completely worth the pain he received when a tight grip fisted his hair and sharply tugged him to the side.

“King Pierce will have your head if he doesn’t survive,” the man said as he pulled Kapitän out of the cell and slammed the door behind them, dragging the smaller man by his arms down the twisting halls until the wound up at a thick silver door and a keypad. He lifted his free hand to his mouth, gripping his gloved thumb in his mouth and pulling his hand free of the fabric, turning just enough to press his thumb against the pad before the door opened with a smooth swooshing sound.

The room behind the door was white, clean and blinding with a tall metal capsule dead centre. Control panels littered the edges of the room, men and women in white coats glancing up when the door opened only to shortly thereafter return their attention to the many dials, switches, and flashing lights. The stranger, Asshole, as Kapitän had started to refer to him as in his head, half pushed and half carried him to the capsule, spinning him and pinning him against the inside of the machine. He restrained him with thick leather belts and stepped back, turning to watch as two more men walked into the room, one closer to Asshole’s age and wearing similar clothing, the other in his 80’s and wearing extravagant clothing. The deep, rich purples and elegant greys paired with the crown on his head screamed royalty, and Kapitän could only assume that this was the King Pierce that Asshole and Abraham had been talking about. Asshole #2 stayed by King Pierce’s side, left hand resting on the grip of his holstered weapon on his hip. Similar to Asshole, Asshole #2 was dressed in protective black clothing and loaded with weapons.

King Pierce raised his right hand and the man by his side stopped where he was standing even as his king continued onward towards Kapitän. He stared, three feet away for a couple of heartbeats that went thump, thump, thump in Kapitän’s chest before his face twisted in disgust. “He is still unwell. And . . .” he trailed off as he looked towards the man with the slicked hair. “Unruly.”

The man lifted a gloved hand and wiped the saliva that had dripped down his cheek and jaw away.

King Pierce’s attention returned to Kapitän and he stepped forward, reaching out a hand to grip his chin to get a better look at him only to be met with the sharp snap of ivory teeth. He pulled his hand back sharply and let the back of it crack against a pale, freckle-dusted cheek, skin immediately growing red and hot and vaguely purple underneath it all. Blood dripped from the corner of Kapitän’s mouth where one of his teeth had made contact with the soft flesh of the inside of his cheek. It tasted sharp and metallic.

He turned to glare at King Pierce, mouth working to draw up saliva and blood and a tinge of mucous, but a wrinkled, veiny hand snapped over his mouth before he could expel the revolting mixture. A second hand came up and pinched over his nose, Pierce’s honeyish voice demanded,” Swallow.”

Kapitän attempted to turn his head away, but the hands pressing harshly on his face and the restraints squeezing him against the back of the inside of the capsule prevented him from doing so. He struggled, trying to get even the faintest wisp of oxygen into his lungs.

He swallowed.

Then immediately heaved.

The king barely managed to get out of the way before Kapitän vomited onto the floor of the machine, retching all of the blood and mucous up before continuing to puke until his stomach was completely void of anything, even yellowish bile. He coughed, dry heaved, then spit, glaring up at the royalty before him. In response, King Pierce grabbed Kapitän by the chin like he had attempted to do earlier, and the violent rolling in his stomach prevented him from doing anything about it less he vomit again. His head was twisted right, then left to expose the swollen side of his face.

Asshole #2 licked his lips at the sight of it, and Kapitän sneered back at him as King Pierce stepped back. “Rollins, Rumlow,” he said, turning to face each respective man. “Tell the good doctor to start the procedure.”

The two men saluted and said something in that unfamiliar language before turning and walking towards the exit, Rumlow glancing over his shoulder to send a predatory look towards Kapitän as the door closed behind him. That left the king and the lost prince alone together.

“You can wipe my memories all you want,” Kapitän sneered. “You can torture me; you can take everything away from me, but I’ll never surrender. I’ll never give in. You will never have the pet you want.”

King Pierce offered a tight smile and cold eyes as the capsule started to move, needles lowering and threatening to poke through Kapitän’s skin. The elderly man took a few steps back before following the other men out of the door. To the left of the door, behind the pane of glass Kapitän had noticed earlier, stood the two guards, a short and rather round man in a white lab coat, and the king.

The needles suddenly lowered and punctured, sharp pin pricks all over his body as the capsule closed. He looked down, struggling as the vials of greenish liquid emptied into his veins. 

It burned.

An pained scream tore through his teeth, burning his throat and heating his chest. His muscles tightened, flexing and pulling roughly at the straps that held him in place.

It felt like forever.

Finally, however, the burning stopped, the straps came loose, and he collapsed to his knees, blissed out and sweaty. His back didn’t hurt. His breathing was deeper than it had ever felt. His face felt less stuffy with infection. His heart felt strong and he could feel warmth circulating from his centre of mass and into his perpetually cold limbs and fingertips, heating them. He felt absolutely incredible. 

A hand clenched around his neck and lifted him, the booming voice of the king bellowing,” What is this?! Bring that rat doctor to me now!” The blond was roughly shoved to the floor, gasping and coughing a bit as he tumbled and hit the ground on his side. Chaos ensued around him, a flurry of people scrambling and doors opening and closing as the scientists and guards scrambled to get Abraham into the room. Kapitän pushed himself up, still dazed and feeling amazing despite his skinned elbow and the sore spot on his hip. All feeling faded when Abraham was shoved into the room with a gun pressed to the back of his head, the barrel ruffling his messy grey hair.

There was a clicking noise, a gun cocking, just out of Kapitän’s peripheral behind him. He turned his head, and Rollins moved the weapon closer until it touched his temple, saying in a smooth, cool tone,” Don’t move.” Kapitän breathed out slow, brow furrowing and raking his teeth over his lower lip as he looked back over at where Abraham kneeled.

“I didn’t keep you alive for you to play games with me, peasant,” the king spat, face twisting his aged, handsome features into something cruel and predatory.

“I don’t know why he didn’t change; he’s an anomaly--”

Abraham’s voice was abruptly cut off by a sudden, high-pitched screaming sound that seemingly came from everywhere. It was dual toned, dropping an octave a second after it started and fizzing out in a low rumble like thunder, reverberating around the room as people started screaming and running.

Rumlow pulled the trigger, blood instantly gushing from Abraham’s head as his eyes went glassy and he toppled forward. Another shot rang out and Rumlow fell as well, a spray of blood coming from his face. He survived the shot, hitting the ground and screaming painfully. Rollins rushed over to his king and Kapitän took the opportunity to run, his lungs remaining sound even as he worked himself harder than he ever had in his life. He turned a corner sharply, stumbling suddenly to a stop when he came face to face with… a person.

They were female, undoubtedly, but a terrifying mask covered her face and Kapitän took an uneasy step back as she tilted her head. The mask was a hyper-realistic spider face, complete with the eight glittering, inky black eyes, fangs, and fuzz.

His back touched something else and he turned, coming face-to-face with a man wearing a bird skull on his head. His head tilted as well, and Kapitän could see that his eyes were frighteningly pupil-less and red. Kapitän opened his mouth to say something; anything, if it meant these two strangers let him walk away alive, when the female said something in a spindly voice, the language sounding similar to the one Rollins had spoken when he had entered the containment cell.

“I don’t understand,” Kapitän rasped out, voice snagging in his throat. He coughed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I just want to go home--”

Another man appeared behind the one wearing the bird skull like he was made of mist, wearing what appeared to be a muzzle. His muffled voice questioned something, and despite the fact that his grey eyes were focused on Kapitän, the question was clearly directed towards the spider. She responded in a clipped tone.

“I just want to go home,” Kapitän whispered, voice dying out when he realized that he couldn’t even remember where home was.

“We will help you,” the muzzled man said, offering a hand. A metal hand, gleaming and sparkling when the sputtering fluorescent lights caught it. “But we need to hurry.” Kapitän hesitated, looking to the other man and woman in their disturbing garb before biting the bullet and taking his hand.

“Tony, hostage secured. Exit approximating at less than five minutes. Meet us back at the compound,” the man in the bird skull said, tapping his ear before following the first man’s lead down the hall.

They made it outside faster than Kapitän expected, but they didn’t slow, the masked man eventually hoisting the blond onto his back despite his refusal to speed their pace even more. The building they were in, a bank, Kapitän realized once they were far enough to see it in its entirety, suddenly exploded and he flinched from the wave of heat and light that reached them even as far away as they were. The orange light reflected off of his savior’s metallic arm and even as his eyes started to slip closed from the exhaustion that was nestling in his very bones he could have sworn that he saw a man made of metal flying in the air in the reflection. His grip slackened and the world went black as he was swept under sleep’s pulling wave.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not exactly sure how many chapters this story will have and I'm not exactly sure how long it'll take for me to finish, but hey-- that's part of the fun, right? I don't have a beta-reader, so if there are any mistakes they are aaalllll my own.


End file.
